Memory
by BlueLuci
Summary: Beyond Birthday reflects on his time with A at Wammy's House. Oneshot Reviews greatly appreciated! T for blood and some language.


Memory

It depends on how you look at it, really. Memories are what make you up, what defines your character, something that you'll always have to cling to. On the other hand, they can be painful and ugly-something you would much rather do without.

Myself-I'm fairly neutral on the subject. I'm more of an in-the-moment sort of guy, if you know what I mean. However. I can allow myself to reflect on my experiences every once in a while. (This is one of those times…).

Once upon a time, I had a best friend. His name was Alternate, or A for short. A was the only salvation I had in that hellhole they liked to call Wammy's House (apart from my sweet, delicious jam, that is). What made us friends was probably our common goal (our relationship had always been more of a rivalry, anyway). But that doesn't matter, does it? The point is we were very good friends.

A was always a bit of an oddball, but weren't we all? He was my age, and we were the oldest students in the house. When I first met him, A was a lively fellow, very optimistic and colorful. Slate grey hair that he insisted was natural and rich jade eyes (yes-I could see he was going to live for a long time…). He would only eat salt and vinegar potato chips, nothing else.

_Nighttime fell like a thick blanket on Wammy's, but some children preferred to stay awake and catch up on their studies. I was sneaking out of my room and into the library, a textbook under one arm and a jar of strawberry jam in the other, and walking on my tip-toes so I wouldn't wake anyone up. The library was large, and dim this time of night. I relaxed, relieved that no one else was in there._

_Crunch! _

_ As I rounded a corner of books, a strong stench of vinegar hit me at the same time I spotted A curled up in a chair with a bag of his detestable chips. I wrinkled my nose at him, obviously questioning his choice in snacks. He laughed as he put his book down on the table._

"_I don't criticize _your_ diet, do I, B?" A stood and brushed past me, still giggling to himself._

_ My eyes lingered just over his head as he left. I was smiling too._

Things changed, though, like they always do. We had classes together, A and I, and he excelled in all of them. The bloody numbers that hovered above him never changed, but he sure did. Over the years, I could see him understanding, with every paper handed back and case solved. A became sickly and pale, his bones jutted out grotesquely from his body (he was eating less chips). He was like a corpse, inside and out.

You didn't have to be a genius to notice what was happening to A. His once-bright green eyes reduced to dead shells that held no warmth. He spent most of his days scrunched in front of his computer screen, bathing in its sickly blue light like it would fill him up (because he was empty).

But I hardly noticed my friend's transformation. On the last legs of A's life, I was far too busy trying to be L to see him, even though he was right in front of me, asking for my help. Maybe I did notice him, but refused to do anything about it (he was going to live for a long time-right?).

_ Early Saturday morning. I liked to get up and about earlier that most of the Wammy kids did- no one bothered me at that ungodly hour. I was walking to the library, my usual go around. The route I took passed A's room. His door was cracked open, letting pale blue light of his computer spill on the floor, so I allowed curiosity take me to the edge of his door to peer in. At first I could not spot A, but a small whimper drew my eyes to a mass of blankets on his bed._

_ Then I noticed the blood (oh, yes, I would know the smell anywhere, even mixed with the overpowering scent of vinegar chips…). Small drops of it pooled on the floor, reflecting the computer monitor's light. Another tiny sob came from A. I tensed my eyes slightly and crept away as silently as possible._

I hate that God-forsaken place. I hate that old fool Quillsh Wammy. But mostly, I think I just hate L (almost as much as I love him). I hate what L has done to me, my best friend, and all the other children who know as well as he does that they're only destined for failure. The majority of the first generation has committed suicide, run away or gone completely batshit crazy (just like me! Kya kya kya…).

_That day was quieter than the others. Hushed words were voiced with caution, as if they could break some delicate balance. Classes were cancelled that day. Roger had knocked timidly at my door (no one had ever been very comfortable around me except A), and informed my solemnly of the discovery that morning brought him._

_ And I still remember: Oh, no no no no, I could never ever erase that image from my mind. His slight form draped on the carpet, now stained a nice strawberry color. Angry red marks zigzagging all over his body. His eyes were closed, and god oh god, on his face was the most at-peace expression I had seen in years, very much different than his starved, cornered-animal look I had grown used to._

_ A hadn't bothered to write a note-there was no need, because we all had a very good idea of why. There was only one message he left, on an opened document of Microsoft Word:_

_Beyond-_

_Ain't reality a bitch?_

_-Alternate_

The next day, I disappeared from Wammy's House, only to resurface years later.

(I still consider A my first murder victim.)


End file.
